


circling somewhere between night and day

by windupbirdgirl



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, Introspection, mila tries to figure herself out, pre-canon to post-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9494417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windupbirdgirl/pseuds/windupbirdgirl
Summary: She’s sixteen years old, and the concept of love tastes bitter on her tongue.Brandishing her skates in front of her like a weapon, she moves through the crowds at the charity gala and pretends to be a warrior.(An ice warrior, her mind adds to the mental image.)





	

_July, 2014_

She’s sixteen years old, and the concept of love is bitter on her tongue.

Brandishing her skates in front of her like a weapon, she moves through the crowds at the charity gala and pretends to be a warrior.

( _An ice warrior,_ her mind adds to the mental image.)

Most people steer away as she makes her way to the rooms set aside for performers, but their eyes fix on her. Fixate on the growing curves shifting under sheer satin.

 _It’s too late to change the costume now, Mila._ She clucks her tongue. The stares burn her down and reduce her to ash.

Finding Yakov, who’s trying to look comfortable in the middle of the hubbub, is like finding an oasis.

“Ah, Mila. I was just about to look for you.”

“You were?”

 “This is Yuri Plisetsky. He’ll be training with us from now on. Yuri!” A boy, about thirteen, slouches over. He didn’t look like he wanted to be there.

Mila zipped up her jacket, fluffing her hair out from under the collar. “Pleased to meet you, Yuri!” She’s aware of the cherry lip balm, her long eyelashes. Her next weapon of choice is a sunny smile, and she aims it at the young boy along with an outstretched hand.

He grunts. Doesn’t look at her.

Her pale hand falters, suspended in the air like a fragile bird.

“Hello?” She coos brightly, waving her hand in front of Yuri’s face.

“What the hell? Who even are you?” Yuri lurches backwards, slapping her hand out of the way as if she’d just served him roadkill instead of a steak.

Yakov looked annoyed. “Yuri, one of the reasons you’re here is to _make a good impression_ on the other skaters, as they’re the ones who will decide if they want you as their teammate—”

Laughter interrupts him. Yuri and Yakov turn to look at Mila.

“Don’t worry, Yakov.” Her tone is sweet. Her heart surges in delight. “I’m sure Yuri will make an amazing teammate.”

* * *

_November, 2014_

Mila had never considered herself _competitive_ , per se, until she lost early in the preliminaries for her first Grand Prix.

It had seemed to be over before it’d properly begun. One minute she was on the ice, beautiful, beautiful, _you’re stunning, Lyudmila –_ the next, she was numb to the core, sitting stiffly on a stiff chair at the Kiss and Cry.

The cameras run away, probably to interview the winner, and Mila sinks her teeth into her knuckles.

“Mila!” Yakov’s voice was sharp, cutting right through her. _He’s disappointed in you,_ she thinks miserably. It wasn’t uncommon for skaters to be removed from the Russian team after a failure, and one as large as this-

Well. Mila didn’t rate her chances.

She rubs her eyes, hard: her fingers come away glittery, gold smudged this way and that.

“So who won?”

“An Italian. Sara Crispino. She’s a favourite to win the final.” Yakov leans forwards, watching as Sara skates a victory lap around the rink.

Mila forces herself to look up, squinting in the direction of the winner.

Shrouded in flowers and an Italian flag, the girl laughs in the distance, clinging to the shoulder of a man Mila doesn’t recognise. It’s probably her boyfriend.

The golden medal on her chest does its own victory dance, swinging just above the girl’s waist as she makes her way over to the barrier.

“You want me to greet her?” Mila murmurs to Yakov. He sniffs.

“It would be polite. And-” He looks her in the eyes, unreadable. “No one likes a sore loser.”

Huffing, Mila pulls herself up. She’s a lot taller with her skates on than without. Ice warrior.

From this distance, Mila can see her face properly. She’s pretty, objectively – bright eyes, tanned skin, her smile taking up too much room on her small face.

The gold medallist, Sara, spots her just before Mila opened her mouth.

“Mila!”

The greeting flies out the window; Mila’s mouth hangs open, stupidly. She closes it.

“You know my name?”

Sara blinked, arms faltering. “Isn’t that normal?”

“Ah, well…” Mila couldn’t think of what to say. Was that normal? If so, then it was Mila who’d done a disservice by simply flicking through the list of competitors with disinterest before tossing it aside, forgotten. “I suppose.”

The warm smile returned. Sara leant forward, arms outstretched like a child. Mila responded almost unconsciously, wrapping her arms around Sara’s shoulders. Sara’s arms came up and around her back in response, squeezing tight.

“You can do much better, you know.” Sara’s voice was inches from Mila’s ear. ‘ _Since when did I do things like this?’_ Mila’s thoughts rushed around her head until they blurred into white noise. She was unable to register anything except the press of Sara’s body, as lithe as any other skater’s, against her own. _She smells nice,_ Mila thinks dizzily, swallowing as she steps back from the hug.

“Yeah. Yes, I know.” 

Sara laughs, patting Mila’s hair fondly. “Your Russian accent is sweet. Oh, Michele?” She turns back to Mila. “Sorry, duty calls. I’ll see you next time?”

Mila’s feeling very flustered. Next time? “I’ll see you too.”

And then Sara’s walking away, dark hair swinging in time with her hips, towards the man from earlier. Mila stands by the barrier, thoroughly medal-less.

Yakov puts his hand on her shoulder, a rare act of comfort, but it’s not quite the same.

Flicking her hair, Mila turns around, back to months of training and away from Sara and her gold medal. There’s a crowd now, competitors, coaches and cameramen mingling, an excited throng dying to speak the winner herself.

“Let’s go, Yakov.”

She doesn’t look back. 

* * *

_December, 2014_

When Mila first watches Sara fail, it’s through a highly pixelated live streaming of Skate America.

It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning, but Mila reasoned she’d have to start engaging with the competition if she’s going to have a chance at defeating them. She’s buried under blankets, an ice-pack nursing a violet bruise on her shoulder – she usually has several of those, nowadays.

The short program from the day before had gone well, placing Sara in second behind an American competitor. The gold had still been well within her reach.

And yet-

Mila slurped an iced tea, frowning. The girl on the screen wasn’t the same as the bubbly winner from the Cup of China.

Sara looked practically pained: striking her opening position, the angles of her body were pulled tight with tension. She didn’t look jaunty or mischievous, like in the previous videos Mila had watched, but solemn. The camera panned away from Sara, the commentator prattling on in rapid English, zooming in on the face of a man standing at the rink side.

Mila raised an eyebrow. She recognised him as the man from before, the man Sara had run to. 

Music fills the stadium, blasting through Mila’s headphones, and in a flash the focus was back on Sara. It’s a very dramatic piece: the female singer whines about something or other as Sara leaps into her first jump, missing the landing by mere inches. She’s back up in a fraction of a second, flinging her arms to the ceiling, to the sky beyond it.

The chorus of the song is slower, and Mila can make out the lyrics.

_‘Oh, I’ve missed you, I will always miss you.’_

Mila remembers the man, thinks of the lyric, stares at the lovesick expression on Sara’s face as she touches the ice after a wobbly quadruple loop.

She scowls, pulling the duvet over her face – she hadn’t expected Sara Crispino to be like that as well.

Their themes always revolve around love.

Mila snaps the laptop shut, laying it carefully on the bedside table before settling down on the mattress. Her room is almost in darkness; moonlight finds its way through the curtains and tinges the bedroom grey.

She rolls over, lifts the edge of the faded curtains and looks upwards. The night is bright from the city below, the stars even brighter – against the covers, her new body is unsure of how it fits within itself.

Nervous hips, the dip of her waist, protrudes from the bedsheets.

New thighs, cushioning bone, slot themselves against white.

Mila closes her eyes.

* * *

_January, 2015_

Mila opens her eyes on her seventeenth birthday and regrets it.

Her head was splitting; her mouth was dry. ‘ _Why did I drink so much last night?’ S_ he winces, reaching for her phone. She remembered the flashing lights, the throng of bodies, and not much else.

Actually, that’s a lie.

That wasn’t how she’d woken up. She’d spent the eve of her seventeenth birthday at the rink being scolded by Yakov.

An alarm split through the silent dawn just before 6 o’clock. Mila screams (quietly, she has neighbours) into her pillow. She sits up, and her eyes dart to the floor length mirror.

Rumpled t-shirt, long hair stuck in messy plaits. There’s no noticeable difference.

By the time she gets to the rink, the sun is higher in the sky. Mila swipes her membership card and heads straight for the changing rooms. As she passes the rink, she realises she’s not the only one there. 

“Oh.” Viktor spots her immediately, pausing in the middle of a routine. “Good morning.” His smile isn’t overly-friendly, but Mila still hoists her bag further up her shoulder uncomfortably. They’ve never really spoken before, and for good reason. Mila didn’t want to talk to the strongest skater in the rink, in Russia, in the world.

She thinks of her measly silver medals from the Junior Championships.

“Good morning.”  She responds with the usual smile, waggling her fingers in his general direction before continuing.

“Mila?” She can hear him crossing the rink, the sharp slice of metal against ice.

She stops, but doesn’t turn around until it’d be too rude not to.

“Yes?” Her mouth is a perfect circle of surprise, with eyes to match. She notices how he looks just as tired as she feels, dark rings under his eyes, a weary smile on his face.

“Happy birthday.” He sounds pleased with himself.

Mila takes a step backwards in shock, her ready smile falling away. “How did you know today was my birthday?” She’s amazed, but her eyebrows are raised sceptically.

Viktor doesn’t say anything, just grins and gestures towards the front desk. She spins around.

There’s an obnoxiously pink banner hung over the window, with “Happy Birthday, Mila!” inscribed upon it in Cyrillic. Sparkles stick to the corners clumsily, cut-out hearts adorning her name.

“W-who made that? Why is it so pink?”

Viktor laughs, “The junior team, of course,” He turns back to her, amused. “They really look up to you. They had to wait until you left last night to put it up.”

Something sinks in Mila’s chest. “They did?” She hadn’t gotten home until almost midnight yesterday.

“Have a good birthday, Mila.” Waving, he skates away, already plugging his earphones back in.

Mila stands in front of the lockers for a long moment before shaking her head, vigorously. It was too early for this.

* * *

_April, 2015_

“So, Skater Babicheva: do you think you have a chance at the podium for the ladies’ singles, even after your collapse at the Grand Prix last year?” The microphone is shoved in front of her, aggressive.

Mila doesn’t retreat. “Well,” Her tone is aloof, saccharine, “I haven’t been practicing non-stop for nothing!”

The microphones laugh in front of her. The flashes behind them hurt her eyes, but she doesn’t yield until she’s safely within the designated hotel.

She’s about to escape to her room, key card and carry-on in hand, when she’s stopped by a warm hand on her shoulder.

“Hey,” Sara looks panicked, a strained smile fixed on her face, “Can we go and get a drink or something?”

Mila looks down at the bags in her hands pointedly. “Like…right now?”

“Yes. There’s a café next to the lobby.” Sara pulls her cap over her face, looking behind her.

“…Quickly, then.”

Half an hour later, there’s an empty mug and a pretty girl sitting across from Mila. She shifts in her seat.

“So that guy is your brother?”

Sara sighs, blowing lightly over her third hot chocolate. “Yeah, that’s Michele.”

“Oh, sorry, I just thought—”

“That we were dating.” Sara’s voice is bitter. “You’re not the first one.”

“I don’t want to intrude, but why not just talk to him about it?” Mila rests her head in her hands, tilting her head. Sara copies the action unconsciously, ribbons of hair falling from her shoulders.

She sighs again. _Her lips form a perfect heart,_ Mila observes.

Sara’s looking at her expectantly: Mila jumps. “Pardon, what did you say?”

“I said, I want him to be the one to realise it’s unhealthy. He needs to be able to cope without me first.”

Internally, Mila rolls her eyes. “He’s an adult, isn’t he?”

With a loud yawn, Sara stretches back against the chair. “I suppose so.” She sits forward again, bright eyes creased with concern. “Don’t you need to get some sleep?”

Mila glances at the clock above the bar. It’s nearly midnight.

“Probably.” She smiles wryly. Sara grins.

“I’ll walk you back to your room then.” She gets up, dusting off her jacket. “You coming?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

_June, 2015_

After Worlds, Mila has Sara’s phone number and a silver medal to match. She skips through training, teasing Yuri and laughing with Viktor and Georgi. It’s nice, she finds, jogging to the rink with the company of her teammates instead of her own thoughts – Yakov seems pleased about this development too, although Mila can’t figure out why.

But the biggest difference to her routine is Sara.

They text a lot – practically every night, actually.

Mila sends her snaps of Yuri caught unawares, and Sara responds gleefully every time. Skyping is a regular occurrence, too; Mila has to pretend to hide her joy when Sara appears on the screen, mussed and sleepy, chunky glasses perched on her nose.

English might be unexplored territory for them, but they bridge further into it with each conversation – Mila swearing unapologetically in Russian, Sara speaking in Italian and refusing to switch back to English until Mila told her what it meant.

Mila laughs a lot more these days. Sara makes her laugh.

* * *

_December, 2015, The Grand Prix Final Banquet_

The champagne made Mila’s head spin. It wasn’t unpleasant at all.  She spun in lazy circles around the dance floor, until her hands were caught mid-air and a there was a person in front of her. They looked very worried.

“Sara!” Mila beamed, swinging their entwined hands to the beat of the pop song.

“Mila, you should really get back to your room, the party’s finishing—”

“But I want to stay here, with you.” She pulled, bringing Sara against her. “Dance with me?”

Sara was beginning to look irritated. Her hair was messy, Mila realised in horror. That never happened. She reached out, brushing the dark hairs back behind Sara’s ear softly.

“Oh boy.”

“But I’m a girl, Sara!” Mila giggled against Sara’s shoulder.

“Let’s just get you upstairs, okay?”

Mila obeyed, saluting.

Back in the hotel room, Mila regained a little of her sobriety. Which was bad.

She was painfully aware of the fact that Sara was in her room (with her, at night!) flopped across an armchair and scrolling through her phone. Mila sat opposite her, on the floor, leaning against the bed.

The pink silk was riding a little higher up Sara’s thigh than it had at the start of the evening, and Mila had to swallow and avert her gaze.

Sara gasped, affronted. “Look at this!”

The glare of the screen is too much. “What is it?” Mila squints from across the room. Sara crawls towards Mila’s bed on her knees, holding the phone in front of her so Mila could get a better look.

Which she was doing. But not at the phone, really.

“I bet Christophe picked that photo _because_ I looked bad in it.” Sara huffed, crossing her legs.

Objectively, it’s a bad photo. Sara’s eyes are squeezed closed, her nose wrinkled. Her smile, as usual, is a lot bigger than everything else.

“Really? I think you look beautiful.” Mila’s voice is no more than a murmur as she drags her eyes away from the screen, staring into Sara’s violet ones.

“You…do?” Sara’s voice is unsure. It really shouldn’t be.

“You know I always think that.”

Mila brushed her fingers against Sara’s chin, as light as a feather, the alcohol urging her on as it rushed through her blood, through her brain. She leaned in, desperately needing to close the distance between them, longing for her lips to be against Sara, against all of Sara.

A gentle hand presses against her shoulder. Mila opens her eyes, confused.

Sara’s eyes are sympathetic. Mila feels something cold fill her, seeping into every corner.

“Mila.” Sara’s voice is a teacher talking to a problematic student. “You need to get some sleep.”

“No I don’t.” Mila grabs the hand on her shoulder. “I need you.”

The pity rises from Sara in waves, knocking Mila backwards as she stands up. “Mila…”

“Don’t you…like me?” Mila’s voice breaks.

“I’m…sorry if I gave you that impression.” The room is too hot, too quiet, deafening. Sara sounds a bit more desperate. “You’re so young, Mila.”

“I’m only a few years younger than you.” It’s barely a whisper. Mila stares at the floor while her insides burn.

“It’s a year too many.” Sara’s picking up her things. “I think I should leave.” She rests her palm against Mila’s hair, ever so gently.

Mila flinches away.

“I think you should leave too.”

* * *

A few months later, Mila cuts off her hair.

“It was out of style, you see.” She tells Yakov, running a hand through her new undercut, the red curls curving around her fingers.

Yakov grunts in response.

Mila doesn’t really think about Sara.

* * *

_December, 2017, the Grand Prix Final_

_“…Competitors Babicheva and Crispino, the two favourites to win, share a polite greeting at the rink side. What do you think, Carl? Who’s in the better position?”_

_“Well, that’s a very difficult question to answer indeed. Both candidates have been aiming for the gold for quite some time now, and although their skill level is similar, their individual skill sets are vastly different. Babicheva, for example, is highly technical – it’s incredibly rare to see her flub a jump these days. On the other hand, Crispino always achieves a fantastic score on the presentation side of things. But then, only time will tell, eh, Jaime?”_

Mila breezes through her short program, almost achieving a personal best.

She watches from above as Sara beckons to the audience, twists into perfect angles and snaps back out of them, calling to the moon.

Her seamless body arches off of the ice, circling somewhere between night and day, a long leg extended to the heavens.

 _‘She’s still breath-taking,’_ a deeper part of Mila whines. 

Mila tells Yakov she needs to find Yuri, and leaves.

(She doesn’t bother to check Sara’s score – she knows it’ll be high.)

Later, in a moment of impulse, she opens Sara’s contact details, types out a message and hits send. She wonders if Sara’s number had changed, or even if she still had Mila’s number.

She buys a drink and forgets about it, her legs dangling beneath the barstool. Yakov would probably be angry if he knew she was drinking mid-competition again, but she didn’t care.

Her phone vibrates in her jacket.

**Outside in ten minutes. I won’t wait long.**

_‘Huh,’_ Mila laughed despondently. She hopped off the bar stool, shrugging her scarf around her neck. ‘ _She knows I hate the cold.’_

Mila shudders as the cold knocks into her like a slap, drying her eyes immediately, but keeps walking.

There’s a bridge in front of the hotel; it’s massive, stretching across the roads beneath it. Mila wonders if it used to be above a river.

There’s a silhouette illuminated against the blur of the city, and Mila’s heart freezes in her throat with pure _want._

The snow deadens her footprints, and Mila waits until she’s standing directly behind her to speak.

“Hey.”

 Sara shouts in shock, rounding on Mila like an angry snowstorm, her hair whipping everywhichway.

“Oh my _God,_ Mila, I thought you were an axe murderer, I was about to manoeuvre you over this _bridge.”_ Sara clutches a hand to her chest, her gaze angry yet nervous.

Giggling, Mila raises her hands up in submission and Sara’s shoulders sag. They’re silent for a few minutes, looking out over the urban sprawl.

“I’m sorry.” Sara mumbles the words into her scarf. The traffic below throws a yellow light onto her features; Mila doesn’t think she’s ever seen her look so vulnerable.

Mila heaved a sigh. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“Yes, but—”

“Sara, just leave it. We’re both different now.”

“Mila, for once, can you just listen to what I have to say?” There are hot tears streaming over Sara’s cheeks as she gulps, trying to hold it in and failing miserably.

“Sara, no, no,” Mila murmurs, eyebrows knitted together with worry, “Come here,” She brushed the tips of her fingers over the tears softly as Sara cried.

Sara buries herself in Mila’s arms as she shudders through it in wails, Mila stroking up and down her arms soothingly. Tears start to prick Mila’s eyes too, but she blinks them away stubbornly.

“I love you.” Sara howls against Mila’s chest.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Sara sniffs, wrapping her arms around Mila’s neck. “I love you, and I’ve loved you for so long.”

“I’ve always been watching you.” Mila admits, pressing her cheek into Sara’s hair. “I loved you so much I thought I’d die.”

Sara brings her head up to gaze at Mila, eyes soft and red, the glow of the city behind her rendering her angelic. “And now?”

“I died of lovesickness years ago. It was your fault.” She tells Sara seriously, wagging her finger.

Giggling is angelic too, when it comes from Sara. Mila’s heart swells fit to burst.

She leans down, and finally, _finally,_ closes the gap between them.

The kiss is wet from their tears, but Sara was in her grasp at long last, and she was never going to let go.

Sara shuffles from one foot to the other. "Let's talk, okay?"

"Yeah." Mila tightens her grip. "Yeah."

* * *

Mila was older now, and maybe that’s why she could grow into the person she’d become.

Dark nights aren’t as scary as when she was young and on the verge of collapsing every time her performance wasn’t perfect – she tries to keep the coffee and alcohol to a minimum, and Sara does her best to not bite her fingernails until she reaches the nail bed.

It’s a grey December, and the tiles are cool beneath Mila’s feet as she pads over to where Sara stands by the window nursing a mug of tea.

Mila delights in pulling her in from behind, Sara’s waist bare and perfect for Mila to skim her fingers over. “Good morning, sweetheart! Ah, oops.”

The tea slops over the cup, splashing down Sara’s cotton shorts as she shrieks.

“Misha! That is the _third time_ you’ve wounded me with my own drink!”

Mila takes the mug and places it on the counter delicately. “Maybe you shouldn’t stand around holding boiling liquid, I mean, that’s very dangerous—”

“Oh, shut up.” Sara places a hand on the back of Mila’s head and pulls her forward, pecking her on the lips before frowning.

“What?”

“It’s your birthday soon. What do you want me to get for you?” A grin spreads across her face - it’s flawless, really, the way she taps Mila’s lips before stretching upwards, her sports bra shifting dangerously.

Mila looked her dead in the eye. “I really need a new bar for the shower curtain. Stainless steel.”

“I give up.”

“Sara, I was joking! A joke! Come back!”

(Ice warriors.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to flesh this out a bit longer, but it appears i am incapable. 
> 
> i had some feelings about mila and sara, and i love writing girls, so this was the result aha
> 
> thank you for reading! feedback is much appreciated :D


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